


how water loves (we return to each other)

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Temporary Character Death, black sails au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: There on the beach in front of them, is the wreck of the Spanish treasure galleon they’ve been hunting for near on half a year. Scattered around the ship, are the men sworn to defend her, some long succumbed to an unknown disease, some now dead at the hands of Martín and his crew.“Palermo!” Tokyo repeats. “We did it!”At her jubilant cry, the others break into cheers. Martín though, in the face of his most significant achievement, feels nothing.A Black Sails Berlermo AU (knowledge of the show not necessary)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 20
Kudos: 65





	how water loves (we return to each other)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klembek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klembek/gifts).



> For my dear clamb, happy birthday and I hope this lives up to your expectations!!!
> 
> TWs: canon-typical violence, homophobia, very briefly and falsely referenced suicide

**1717**

The Toledo lurches dangerously and Martín swears, leaving the warmth of his cabin and stomping out onto the deck, right into the raging storm. The wind batters him, howling around the ship. Rain is lashing onto the wooden deck, making every step treacherous.

“Helsinki!” he yells to his first mate, who is watching the crew battling the elements with a worried expression. “I thought we were steering around the storm, not going all the way through it!”

Helsinki turns as lightning flashes behind him, casting eerie shadows. He looks soaked to the bone, water running down his face and into his sodden beard. “We are, captain. This is the outer edge.”

“Jesus, if this is what it’s like on the outside, I can’t imagine what it’s like further in,” Martín sighs, raising his voice when Helsinki signals that he couldn’t hear him. “Are we going to be able to get to Nassau okay?”

“Yes,” Helsinki shouts over the roar of the ocean. “Might take us until tomorrow afternoon, but we’ll get there.”

“Good! The crew can have double rations tonight on account of the weather.”

Helsinki cracks a smile. “Aye, captain. Thank you.”

Martín rolls his eyes and returns to his cabin, scowling when he finds someone there waiting for him.

“What do you want, Nairobi?”

Nairobi smiles, not bothering to get up from where she’s seated in Martín’s favourite chair.

“It’s about the crew.”

Martín flops onto his bed, closing his eyes. “What about them?”

“Well, they’re wondering what’s going to happen next?” she asks and he can hear her opening drawers, no doubt looking for his not-so-secret stash of rum.

“What does that mean?” he asks, eyes still firmly closed. “We go back to Nassau, we meet up with the Professor and we ask him for his help with the next plan. Just because we haven’t found the treasure galleon, doesn’t mean we won’t.”

Nairobi is quiet for a moment, which Martín knows is never a good sign from his quartermaster. “And that’s still your goal… and the Professor’s? To capture a treasure galleon and use the gold to fortify Nassau so we can all live there freely.”

“Of course,” Martín says, sitting up and frowning at her. “Why wouldn’t that be our plan?”

“Well, we didn’t succeed today,” she starts and he cuts her off.

“Because of the huge fucking storm, you know that, Nairobi!”

“I do,” she says. “But there’s also the issue of this.”

She pulls a letter from inside her shirt and hands it to Martín. The writing on the envelope is familiar to Martín, it’s Sergio’s hand, although why he of all people would be writing a letter addressed to the governor of Havana is beyond Martín.

“What is this?” he demands and she gestures for him to open it.

He notices the envelope is unsealed and any hope that Nairobi hadn’t already read its contents vanishes. He pulls the paper out and unfolds it, trying to conceal the trembling of his hands. The writing swims and blurs in front of his eyes as his rage rises inside him. The words Sergio has written, that Nairobi has read, that Martín can barely believe, are treacherous, deeply so. But there it is, in Sergio’s distinctive handwriting, asking the governor of Havana for a pardon if Martín – or rather the pirate known as Palermo – agrees to stop terrorising the Spanish trade routes, agrees to supply the Spanish navy with any and all knowledge of the other pirates in and around Nassau, and agrees to help win Nassau for the Spanish.

“Nothing has changed, I still plan on using the gold to fortify Nassau to fend off anyone who tries to encroach on our freedom – be it the Spanish, the English, or even the Chinese!” he says, clenching one hand in the blankets on his bed. “I have no idea what this is, but trust me when I say that I will handle it once we’re back in Nassau.”

Nairobi nods slowly. “I didn’t think you knew, but I had to make sure.”

He clenches his jaw, trying to take calming breaths. Around him, the cabin is rocking from side to side, the ship still caught in the grips of the storm.

“Who else knows?” he asks, keeping his gaze fixed on the flickering oil lamp behind Nairobi.

“Just Denver,” she says. “He’s the one who found it, when he was getting your maps for you earlier. I took it off him, but I don’t think you need to worry. You know he can’t read.”

Martín nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nairobi seems to understand the dismissal, for she leaves the cabin with only a murmured good night. She’s not quite successful at sneaking the rum out without him noticing, but when she grimaces guiltily, he just waves her off. He can’t blame her for wanting a little less sobriety, and after seeing the contents of Sergio’s letter, he wants nothing more than to drink himself into oblivion.

He tosses the letter onto his desk, unable to even look at it, and walks to his chest, only stumbling a little as the floor beneath him pitches to the side. He braces himself on the wall as he opens the trunk and digs around for his much better hidden, secret stash of rum. While he’s rummaging, his fingers brush something papery and he pulls out a book along with the bottle.

He hasn’t seen this particular book in a while, he was almost certain that he left it in the house with Sergio. He doesn’t like to carry this reminder of his old life around on the open sea, where anything could happen to it.

Nevertheless, he flips it open, briefly admiring how the embossed letters on the cover catch the light. The words “Homer’s Iliad” flashing golden. Still, the fond feeling of familiarity the ornately etched words evoke, are nothing compared to the maelstrom of longing and pain that is set loose in his chest when he sees the simple, inked lettering on the title page of the book.

_Martín,_

_My truest love._

_Know no shame._

_A. d. F._

* * *

**1705**

The house is huge, far grander than anything Martín has ever seen up close without being shooed along, let alone seen up close. Yet here he is, being ushered into the drawing room by servants, saying that Señor de Fonollosa has been waiting for his esteemed guest.

The man himself is lounging on a divan in front of the fire place, although he gets to his feet when the servant announces Martín’s presence. He’s dressed in clothes finer than any Martín has seen before - outside of the glimpses he’s caught of royalty - and the gold brocade in his waistcoat draws Martín’s eyes just as much as his charming smile does.

“Ah, Teniente Berrote, thank you so much for coming,” he says, shaking Martín’s hand. “Please, sit down.”

Martín does as he’s told and takes a seat on the couch opposite de Fonollosa’s divan. “Thank you for the invitation, Señor. It’s not often that someone of my rank is invited to the home of someone of your standing.”

Evidently that was the right thing to say, for the other man smiles at Martín. “You’re quite the flatterer aren’t you? Now, before we get down to the business side of things, I’d like to learn some more about you.”

“About me?” Martín asks with a frown.

He hasn’t managed to work his way to the rank of lieutenant without making friendly acquaintances in the upper circles, but they’re rarely interested in him and his life outside of the navy.

“Yes,” de Fonollosa says, smile widening. “Tell me about your family, where you’re from. You’re not from Madrid… or even Spain, I believe.”

Martín’s eyes widen. It’s been years since he left the colonial city where he was born and he’d thought he’d managed to hide his accent quite well. De Fonollosa grins, as if he knows exactly what Martín is thinking.

He swallows, nodding at the other man. “You’re correct, sir. I was born in the Argentine colonies.”

“So your father was in the navy too?”

“I believe so,” Martín says with a shrug and hastens to elaborate when the other man frowns. “He was never… He and my mother… I was born out of wedlock, sir. My mother was a barmaid.”

“Ah,” de Fonollosa says. “Well, there’s a tale I know well. My brother, whom I’m sure you’ll meet soon, is in a similar predicament. We only share a mother, and my father was sure to remind him of that fact often during our childhood.”

“I’m sorry,” Martín says, for lack of something better to say.

“As am I. But please, do continue, Teniente. How did a bastard from Buenos Aires work his way to the rank of an officer in the Spanish navy?”

The words are sharp, but the smile the other man wears is genuine and though Martín’s hackles are raised, he doesn’t storm out or attack the other man, as he would, if anyone else had spoken to him that way.

“One of the regulars in the bar was a merchant. He was fond of my mother and eventually of me. He taught me to read, write, and how to do basic arithmetic. I figured out I had a way with the numbers and when my mother… When she decided she was no longer obligated to care for me, he took me back to Spain with him.”

De Fonollosa is staring at him with narrowed eyes and Martín tries not to lose himself in the memories of the slurs, the accusations of perversion his mother had thrown at him. Of the things he’d had to do to pay his way once he arrived in Spain, of how long it had taken to get to where he is now.

“So… the bleeding-heart of a merchant is the reason you’re now one of the finest engineers in the Spanish Navy?” de Fonollosa questions and Martín grins cockily.

“Well, his bleeding heart and my enormous talent.”

De Fonollosa smiles too. “Quite.”

Martín leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “So, this project you needed my help on.”

“Oh, yes of course. We should focus on the real reason you’re here. I want to end piracy in the Caribbean and south Atlantic.”

“You,” Martín gapes, fearing he must have misunderstood the man. “You want to, what?”

“You heard me,” de Fonollosa says smugly.

Martín nods. “I did, but… how on earth do you plan on doing that?”

De Fonollosa, pauses, as if purposely creating more tension. “I’m going to grant them all pardons. Every single pirate. And hire them to take Nassau, all of the Bahamas, from the English.”

Martín just stares at this… this madman, for that’s what he must be to suggest such a plan.

“I know it’s an unusual proposal,” de Fonollosa says. “But I was told that if anyone in the navy were to be interested in something so unusual, it would be you.”

“Why were you told that? And why did you believe it?” Martín asks, incredulously.

De Fonollosa smiles disarmingly again. “Because I was told by everyone with whom I enquired about you, that you were determined, cunning, ruthless, and possibly the smartest man in the Spanish Navy.”

Martín laughs a little breathlessly. “I haven’t the first idea how to achieve your goal, let alone get the navy on board with this plan. I’m not the man you’re looking for, I fear you’ve been sold an incredible crock of horse shit, if you’ll pardon my language, sir.”

“No, I don’t think I have,” De Fonollosa says. “There’s a time and place for humility, Martín Berrote, but it’s not when someone is asking you to change the world with them. So what do you say? Are you in?”

He’s on his feet again, staring down at Martín, hand outstretched. The fire casts shadows on his face, making it seem more chiselled, less human, more like something out of a Grecian myth.

Martín once saw a painting of Lucifer, holding out his hand to another angel as he fell. Although whether he was trying to save himself, or take the other angel down with him, Martín couldn’t be sure. Right now, Martín doesn’t know if he’s saving himself or letting himself be dragged down to hell, but he reaches out and shakes de Fonollosa’s hand anyway.

“I’m in, Señor de Fonollosa. Thank you for choosing me as your naval liaison,” he says, enjoying the brief skin on skin contact between them.

De Fonollosa smirks. “You’re welcome. Now, since we’re to spend a lot of time together, why don’t you call me Andrés? My brother will also be working with us and I’m sure it will be strange to speak formally to you, and familiarly to him, don’t you agree?”

Martín nods. “Yes sir, uh, I mean… Andrés.”

* * *

**1717**

Once the Toledo is anchored in Nassau’s port and he’s been rowed to shore, Martín saddles a horse and starts riding inland to the house he and Sergio bought when they first arrived in the Bahamas. The letter Nairobi found is tucked into his breeches, underneath his shirt so it’s secure.

The closer he gets to the house, the more the rage builds in him. Everything they’ve built, they’re so close to gaining what they’ve wanted, and Sergio tried to throw it all away.

He doesn’t even bother tying the horse up when he arrives in the scraggly yard surrounding the house. He dismounts, pulling the letter from its place against his skin and storms into the house.

Sergio is at the writing desk, studiously bent over some papers, the purpose of which Martín doesn’t care to figure out. He looks up when Martín walks in, a frown on his face, spectacles halfway down his nose.

“You’re back early,” he says quietly. “I take it all did not go as planned?”

Martín grits his teeth, looking up at the ceiling before he speaks, his anger flaring inside him. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he asks Sergio. “What madness possessed you to write that letter?”

Sergio stares at him, but doesn’t reply.

“Nairobi found it, in fact she took it off Denver, who found it. If they’d showed it to anyone on the crew – Tokyo for example – I’d be dead. It’s only Nairobi’s blind faith in you that prevented it,” Martín hisses.

Sergio gets to his feet, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “I’m sorry. You know I’d never intentionally put you in any kind of danger.”

Martín purses his lips. “Wouldn’t you? And what were your intentions exactly? To destroy everything we’ve tried to build here for the past ten years? Or was it just to embarrass me?”

“To show you a way out of all this, to free you,” Sergio says coolly.

“A way out?” Martín exclaims. “Have you no memory of how we got here? Of what they took from us?”

Sergio sighs. “What does it matter now?”

Martín stares at him incredulously. “What does it matter?”

“What does it matter what happened then, if we have no life now?” Sergio demands, stepping into Martín’s personal space. “Because there is no life here, no joy. There is no love here!”

“What are you talking about?” Martín shouts, shocking Sergio into silence. “What do you think I’m out there fighting for, if not to make all those things possible here?”

“You’ll fight a war so we can have a life?” Sergio asks, as if he wasn’t the one supporting all of Martín’s actions for the last decade, the one planning all of Martín’s excursions into revenge and piracy.

Martín nods, gesticulating wildly. “Yes, you don’t get one without the other, hermano!”

“No,” Sergio says, shaking his head emphatically. “You’re wrong. I sent that letter to show you that you’re wrong. There is a life in Havana. There is joy there, there is academia, and peace.”

Martín shakes his head, but Sergio won’t let him speak.

“The door is open, Martín. I opened it for you and it requires no war, and no blood. No sacrifice.”

“I requires an intolerable sacrifice,” Martín says and he hates how his voice breaks, how his eyes fill with tears.

Sergio looks confused, brows pulled together. “To accept a pardon?”

“To apologise!”

“Apologise?” Sergio blinks at him. “To whom will you be apologising?”

“To Spain!” Martín roars and a part of him is gratified at how Sergio takes a step away from him, from his anger. “They took everything from us. And then they call me a monster? The moment I sign that pardon, the moment I ask for one, I proclaim to the world that they were right.”

“Martín,” Sergio says softly, but he shakes his head.

“No, Sergio. This ends when I grant them my forgiveness. Not the other way around.”

“This path you’re on, it doesn’t lead where you think it does,” Sergio says, but Martín is already on his way out. “If he were here, he’d agree with me!”

Martín slams the door behind him, Sergio’s words ringing in his ears. He wants to go back, to throw his words back in his face. Tell him that Andrés isn’t here, and if he were, he would surely agree with Martín. Instead, he mounts his horse, rides back into town, and gets drunk.

* * *

**1706**

“I figured it out,” is the first thing that Martín says when he enters the dining room. “I figured out how to take Nassau.”

Andrés is seated at the head of the ridiculously large and opulent dining table, with Sergio to his right, and a woman with fiery red hair opposite him.

“Martín,” Andrés says, getting to his feet immediately. “I’m glad you’ve returned, it’s been a long three months without you, my friend.”

Martín strides towards him and they clasp hands. “That they have been, but when the admirals call…”

“You answer, I understand,” Andrés says, a smile softer than Martín has ever seen playing on his lips. As if suddenly remembering himself, he lets go of Martín, breaking the overlong handshake. “Martín, you remember my brother Sergio of course, and this is Tatiana, my fiancée.”

Martín nods at Sergio and bows courteously at Tatiana who offers him an attractive smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Tatiana, dear, this is my friend Teniente Martín Berrote. He’s my naval liaison and helping me with my work for the government,” Andrés says and Tatiana smiles.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Teniente. Please, won’t you join us for dinner?” she asks.

Martín hesitates. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Well,” Tatiana says with a laugh. “I’m not the lady of the house yet, but I have no objections and I’m sure neither does Andrés.”

Andrés smiles at her, and it might be Martín’s imagination, but it doesn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. “You’re quite right as always, querida, Martín we would love it if you joined us.”

“Well if you insist,” Martín teases and it neither escapes his notice how Andrés hides his smile in his wine glass, nor how Sergio rolls his eyes behind his spectacles.

Dinner is pleasant enough, right up until a man comes rushing into the room, a harried servant behind him.

“I’m sorry Señor de Fonollosa,” the servant says. “Señor Román insisted he be let into the house as his step-daughter is here.”

Andrés nods. “That’s quite alright, Matías. Señor Román, it’s lovely to see you as always.”

“Señor de Fonollosa,” Román says. “I was under the impression that you and Tatiana were no longer engaged.”

“What gave you that impression?” Andrés asks, raising an eyebrow.

Román looks affronted to have even been asked the question, practically puffing up like a toad as his face colours. “The fact that your politics have completely diverged from the interests of the crown and country.”

“I would have thought both the crown and the, ah, country would be interested in getting rid of the pirates that threaten Spain’s Atlantic trade routes,” Andrés smirks. “Or is that no longer the case?”

“Not if you’re going to pardon the pirates and use Spanish gold to fight another unsustainable war against the English!”

“Señor, if I may,” Martín says, getting to his feet. “Señor de Fonollosa’s plan is bold, but with the help of his brother and myself it has been turned into something that is quite doable.”

Román looks at Martín how most men of a certain class have looked at him for most of his life – like he’s dirt under their shoe. “And who exactly are you?”

“Arturo, this is Teniente Berrote,” Tatiana says, rising to join Martín. “He’s Andrés’ naval liaison.”

“Is he indeed,” Román sneers. “So… Teniente Berrote, is it true what they say about men in the navy? Because you certainly look the sort, although I wouldn’t have taken de Fonollosa for one of your kind.”

Andrés gets to his feet with the loud scraping of a chair, but Martín speaks first.

“Get out!” he commands, drawing himself up to his full height, smirking when Román flinches away.

He recovers quickly though, stepping back towards Martín. “I beg your pardon?”

Martín stares him down. “You heard me, sir, though I doubt you deserve the title. Get out of this house, I will not stand for the disrespect with which you are addressing Señor de Fonollosa.”

Román opens and closes his mouth, gaping like a fish, but no words are forthcoming. Finally, when he has flushed a horrible shade of puce, he seems to shake himself out of his stupor.

“Tatiana come, we’re leaving. Your mother is worried sick about you.”

Tatiana glances regretfully at Andrés, but nods, bowing her head. “Yes, Arturo. Gentlemen, thank you for your hospitality.”

Martín nods at her curtly, but doesn’t take his eyes off Arturo until he has left the dining room. When he hears the great, wooden front door shut, he relaxes, turning back to Andrés who is still standing at the far end of the table. Sergio, seated between them, watches calculatingly, eyes darting back and forth.

“Did you just throw my soon to be father-in-law out of my house?”

“I’m sorry,” Martín says, deflating. “I shouldn’t have done that, it wasn’t my place.”

Andrés nods slowly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I… uh,” Martín says, stopping and starting several times. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“Don’t,” Andrés orders and Martín obeys.

He stalks towards Martín, who remains frozen in place, unable to move, willing to bear whatever punishment Andrés sees appropriate.

“Arturo was right wasn’t he?” Andrés asks and Martín’s stomach floods with ice even as his fear keeps him rooted to the spot.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Andrés smirks. “I think you do. Arturo, as despicable as he is, was right about certain men in the navy, about the kind of man you are.”

Martín juts his chin out, unwilling to be cowed even as his heart threatens to break in two. This was exactly what he has feared. All these months working in close quarters with Andrés, sharing meals, wine, late night talks about the peculiarities of the Roman historian and the great works of art strewn throughout Europe, the magnetic pull he feels towards him has only grown. Martín knows what kind of man he is, he had just hoped that Andrés never would.

“You’re shaking,” Andrés says softly, less than a foot of space between them. “What are you afraid of, Martín? Of me? Of what’s between us? What we have is extraordinary, unique, wonderful.”

“Please,” Martín says quietly.

Andrés frowns. “Please, what?”

“Please don’t. Don’t give me… hope. Not if you’re about to take it all away again.”

A smile appears on Andrés face, one corner of his mouth lifting just ahead of the other. “How would I take it away? By telling you I like women? It’s true, I do, but…”

“But?” Martín repeats and he’s barely breathing, hardly aware of anything but Andrés, who is a scant few inches away from him.

Andrés stretches out a hand and rests it on Martín’s shoulder. “But what does that matter? We’re soulmates, Martín. Maybe only ninety-nine percent, it’s true. But what’s that one percent against ninety-nine?”

Martín leans into the touch, as Andrés’ other hand comes up to rest on his cheek. “Nothing,” he murmurs.

Andrés nods. “Exactly,” he says and then he’s drawing Martín into a kiss.

It’s tentative at first, neither of them quite sure of the other, but it quickly becomes more passionate, with Andrés winding his hands into Martín’s hair, and Martín wrapping his arms around Martín’s waist to pull him closer.

They part for air and it’s only when he coughs pointedly that Martín remembers Sergio is still in the room. He doesn’t say anything, just gets to his feet and leaves the dining room, but Martín flushes anyway.

“Don’t worry, cariño,” Andrés says against his temple. “He won’t say anything.”

* * *

**1717**

“We did it,” Tokyo says, sounding dumbstruck.

There on the beach in front of them, is the wreck of the Spanish treasure galleon they’ve been hunting for near on half a year. Scattered around the ship, are the men sworn to defend her, some long succumbed to an unknown disease, some now dead at the hands of Martín and his crew.

“Palermo!” Tokyo repeats. “We did it!”

At her jubilant cry, the others break into cheers. Martín though, in the face of his most significant achievement, feels nothing.

He stumbles away from the galleon and his celebrant crew and sits in the shallow waves. They soak his trousers and boots, and even the bottom half of his shirt, but that means little to him. He drops the sword that was still clenched in his hands and watches it settle on the brilliantly white sand. His hands are caked in red and as he starts to scrub at them, he wonders if he’ll ever really be able to get them clean.

He was never one for dramatic introspection and reflection on morality – Andrés was always better at that than he – but he can’t help but think of Sergio’s words and question whether he was right. Whether this is what Andrés would truly want for him. Andrés, his Andrés, the one only he got to see, could be ruthless. He could be cruel, and cold, and remorseless. Certainly he wouldn’t shy from violence like the other men in his social circle and yet… Yet Martín can’t shake the fear that Sergio is right about what his brother would want, he knew him longer after all.

A shadow falls across him and then Helsinki is splashing into the water beside him.

“Everything alright, Captain?” he asks.

There are spots of blood on his shirt, his face, evidence of arterial spray up one of his arms, covering his tattoos. But he isn’t coated, soaked in it the way Martín is. None of the crew are. None of them fight with his ferocity, his determination.

Martín nods. “Everything’s fine, Helsinki.”

Helsinki nudges him with his shoulder and Martín leans against him, remembering the days when he sought comfort in the other man’s arms, before he realised he was better off alone, better off not ruining anyone else.

“If you’re sure, Captain.”

“I am,” Martín says with a sigh. “Let’s get that gold loaded onto the Toledo. We have a triumphant return to make.”

Helsinki grins, getting to his feet and offering him his hand. Martín takes it and allows Helsinki to pull him up.

“Alright,” he calls loudly. “Let’s get this back to Nassau!”

The crew cheer and Martín thinks about the life he can build with this gold. It won’t be like before, but he can gain Nassau’s independence from any European country, he can keep the people he has grown to love safe.

* * *

**1706**

The curtains flutter as if they’re alive in the early morning breeze and Martín sighs as Andrés, dressed in a nightshirt, accepts the breakfast tray from his servant.

Martín waits until the servant disappears to speak. “You’re spoiling me,” he says as Andrés returns to bed with the heavily laden tray.

“How so?” Andrés asks, before cutting off Martín’s reply with an insistent kiss.

“You’re incorrigible,” Martín says indulgently when Andrés pulls away to pour them some tea. “What I was trying to say – before you so rudely interrupted me – was that I’m getting too used to breakfasts in feather beds. I’m in the navy you know, you’ll have ruined me for wooden cots and dried meats.”

Andrés shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “You should never have been accustomed to those things anyway.”

Martín laughs. “Oh really? Are they not good enough for – what was it you called me when we first met? A bastard from Buenos Aires?”

Andrés puts his tea cup aside, crawling across the bed and pushing Martín flat on his back, straddling his thighs. “You brat, I didn’t mean anything by that. You know I love you.”

“Do I?” Martín teases, bucking his hips and making Andrés groan. “I seem to have forgotten just how much.”

“How could you possibly have forgotten in the space of one night?” Andrés asks, bending down to mouth at Martín’s bare throat.

“What can I say,” Martín gasps as Andrés lowers his full weight onto his body. “I’m terribly, ah, forgetful.”

“Clearly I’ll have to remind you,” Andrés mumbles against his skin.

Martín nods eagerly as Andrés slides down his body. “I think that would be very helpful.”

-

“What are you reading?” Martín asks when he awakens for the second time that morning, head pillowed on Andrés’ bare chest.

Andrés looks up from the leather bound book and smiles. “The Illiad, one of the greatest works in human history. You haven’t read it?”

“No, what is it about?” Martín asks with a yawn.

“It’s about the Trojan War,” Andrés says fondly, stroking a hand through Martín’s hair. “About The Greeks spending ten years trying to get into the walls of Troy, about a great many heroes and a great many tragedies.”

Martín snorts. “That’s not surprising, is it? All heroes have great tragedies befall them.”

“Some greater than others.”

Martín rubs the palm of his hand up and along Andrés’ stomach. “Who’s was the greatest?”

Andrés reaches for his hand, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to Martín’s knuckles. “Undoubtedly Achilles.”

“What happened to him?”

“He lost Patroclus.”

“Who was that, his brother?” Martín asks earning him a sharp jab to the side.

“No,” Andrés says, already soothing over the sore spot with the flat of his hand. “He was his lover.”

“So the church is right, when they call the Greeks sodomites?”

Andrés hesitates, but nods. “Yes, but weren’t they more than that? They surely loved each other as the church claims husbands should love their wives. Listen. After the death of Patroclus, Achilles said this: [my dear comrade Patroclus has fallen—he whom I valued more than all others, and loved as dearly as my own life? I have lost him](https://www.bartleby.com/192/18.html).”

Martín is silent for a moment, watching Andrés’ face as he studies the page in front of him again. His eyes are darkened by an ancient grief, one that is not his own, but which Martín recognises as one that could be.

“You haven’t lost me yet,” he says and Andrés returns his attention to him.

“No,” he says. “I haven’t, have I?”

“And you shan’t,” Martín insists. “I’d like to see the man that thinks he can take you from me.”

Andrés laughs. “They’d certainly have a fierce fight on their hands, mi amor.”

Martín leans up to kiss him, then resettles himself, with his head on Andrés’ stomach, legs hanging off the side of the bed. “Keep reading to me, querido. What happened to your tragic hero?”

“Well,” Andrés says, paging through the book. “He dies.”

“Of course,” Martín sighs and he can feel Andrés’ laughter as if it were his own.

“But first, he kills the man who killed Patroclus.”

Martín nods. “As he should.”

Andrés rests a hand on Martín’s chest, just over his heart. “Are you saying if I were to die, you’d avenge my death.”

Martín grins. “Cariño, if you died because you overate and your heart burst, I’d kill the butcher that sold your cook the bacon you gorged on.”

* * *

**1718**

“How is the work on the fort going?” Sergio asks, joining Martín on the balcony of the tavern.

Below them, the town is bustling, reinvigorated by the gold Martín and his crew brought, and the prospect of finally ridding itself of the lingering shadow of occupation.

“Slow,” Martín admits reluctantly. “I can’t help but worry that it’s not going fast enough, and that we won’t be able to defend ourselves adequately when they come.”

Sergio leans on the wooden railing. “When who comes, Martín?”

Martín shrugs. “The Spanish for their gold, the English for their land, other pirates for their share. Does it matter who?”

“I suppose not,” Sergio relents. “But aren’t you tired?”

“Tired of what?” Martín asks sharply.

“The fighting, the fleeing, the rebuilding.”

“No,” Martín says firmly. “I’m not tired. This is what we wanted, remember? A place where people could live freely, governed only by themselves.”

Sergio sighs. “I’m not sure anymore. All I want is peace.”

“We could have peace here,” Martín counters.

“No we can’t,” Sergio says and his tone is sharper than Martín recalls hearing it in a long time. “Or at least I can’t. This place? It’s just sand. And I can’t be here any longer.”

Martín turns to face him, his stomach twisting. “You’re leaving?” he asks, barely able to resist adding ‘me’. “You’re leaving Nassau?”

Sergio nods. “I am. Martín, you know I love you. You’re as much of a brother to me as Andrés ever was, but Raquel and I… we have good prospects, we could have a real life together, somewhere far away from here.”

Martín swallows the lump in his throat. “I understand.”

“Martín,” Sergio says imploringly. “You could come with us. Let someone else take over, let yourself be at peace too. Leave it in the hands of Helsinki or Nairobi.”

“No,” Martín says. “I’m sorry, but this is too important to put the fates of everyone here in someone else’s hands. I need to finish this fight.”

“And what fight would that be?” Sergio asks with a hollow laugh. “You say you fight for the sake of your crew, for the sake of Nassau – for the sake of Andrés and his memory. But the truth of the matter is, it isn’t for any of those things.”

Martín glares at him. “Then what the fuck do you think I am fighting for?”

Sergio holds his gaze. “I think you’re fighting for the sake of fighting! Because it’s the only state in which you can function, the only way you can keep that voice in your head from driving you mad!”

“What are you talking about?” Martín demands. “What voice?”

“The one telling you to be ashamed of yourself for having loved him,” Sergio says matter-of-factly, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

Martín sags against the railing, barely keeping himself upright. Sergio looks at him pityingly and Martín hates it, hates him.

“You were told that it was shameful,” Sergio says quietly. “And no matter how proud you were, how you told yourself you didn’t care about anyone but Andrés, I know a part of you believed it.” Martín draws a shuddering breath, even as Sergio continues to talk. “Andrés was my brother. I loved him, and he loved me… But what he shared with you, it was entirely something else. It’s time you allowed yourself to accept that.”

Sergio stares at him and Martín resolutely blinks away his tears. “The only thing I’m ashamed of, is that I didn’t do something to save him when we had the chance. That instead I listened to you!”

Sergio physically flinches at Martín’s venomous words. “I told you I had considered every possible plan, there was no way to save him.”

“Did you consider that he would kill himself to save himself from that place?”

“No!” Sergio says and his vehemence startles Martín out of his anger. “No,” he says again, softer this time. “I did not… I never considered the possibility of my brother’s death.”

Martín draws a breath and it sounds too much like a sob.

Sergio reaches out to squeeze his shoulder and then steps away. “Goodbye, Martín. I hope… I hope one day we’ll meet again. You’ll always be my brother, I hope you know that.”

Martín doesn’t respond, just lets him go, lets the last piece of Andrés, the last person who truly knows him walk out of his life.

* * *

**1707**

“I’m saddened to see that things here still haven’t changed,” Arturo Román says as he strides into the drawing room.

Martín exchanges a look with Tatiana and Andrés who were curled together on the chaise-lounge, allowing Martín to lean against their entwined legs and gets to his feet.

“Señor Román,” Andrés says, disentangling himself from his wife and getting up too. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come to ask you to drop this foolish plan! You cannot possibly think presenting this… this fantasy to court will be a good idea. You’ll be a laughingstock – and by extension, so will my step-daughter, and so will I!” Arturo says, and it’s more pathetic than intimidating.

Tatiana shakes her head. “Arturo – papa – please. Andrés knows what he’s doing.”

Arturo shakes his head. “No! I won’t allow it! Señor de Fonollosa, you will swear to me here and now that you will give up this crusade, or I will make it my mission to ruin you!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Martín bites out and Arturo’s mouth curls into a cruel smirk.

“The same goes for you. And you… you’re much easier to ruin.”

Martín steps forward, but Andrés’ hand on his chest stops him. His words are cold and deliberate when he turns to Arturo, hand still holding back Martín. “I think I’d like it if you left my house.”

“I warned you!” Arturo threatens one last time, before he turns on his heel and leaves.

Martín sighs and Andrés pats his shoulder before drawing him into a hug. “It’s alright, cariño,” he whispers. “It’ll be okay.”

“He’s right, Martín,” Tatiana says comfortingly. “My step-father is all talk with no follow-through.”

Martín smiles at her, then pulls away from Andrés so as to properly look at him. “He’s right though, this is a risk. Are you a hundred percent sure, that you want to take it?”

Andrés considers him, then smiles. “Of course. What’s life without a little risk?”

* * *

**1718**

The sound of canon fire is deafening and Martín ducks as more wood explodes when the navy ship takes out part of the quarter deck.

“Fire at will!” he yells and hears the order being relayed by both Helsinki and Nairobi to the crew who are manning the canons below. “Why the fuck did they attack, do they know who we are?”

Rio runs up to him, telescope in hand. “Captain, it’s not just any navy ship. It’s Comodoro Gandía!”

Martín swears, grabbing the telescope and focussing on the man standing on the poopdeck of the naval ship. It is indeed Gandía, who has attacked Nassau twice and seems determined to hunt Martín to the ends of the Earth.

“Moscow wants to know what you want to do,” Rio says nervously, his voice barely audible over the noise from the guns. “Do you want to make a run for it, or come about so we can aim the guns properly?”

It’s not something he needs to think about. The day Martín stops fighting, is the day he dies.

“Tell Moscow to bring us about, I want the guns to hold their fire from now until my command. And tell Oslo I want him to ready a chain shot. I’m not letting them survive this.”

Rio nods, hurrying off to obey Martín’s orders. Martín turns, spying Denver on the main deck.

“Denver!” he roars. “Hoist the colours. Let these bastards know exactly who they’ve decided to mess with!”

“Yes Captain,” Denver responds and soon Martín sees the black flag with the insignia he picked out himself, flying from the mast.

The ship slowly turns so they’re properly alongside the navy ship. There’s a moment of silence, of serene stillness and just as Martín opens his mouth to order open fire, the world around him explodes in fire and splintered wood.

He finds himself flat on his back with his ears ringing. His vision is blurry, swimming in red and black and he screams. All around him, there’s still movement, he can hear people yelling. The scent of gunpowder hangs thick in the air and Martín coughs violently, spitting globs of blood onto the deck next to him.

“Palermo!” That’s Helsinki, he knows it, but he can’t see him, wouldn’t recognise his own mother because there’s something wrong with his eyes, with his vision. “Palermo it’s alright!”

The pain in his eyes is white-hot, nothing he’s ever experienced compares to this, nothing. Someone grabs him, their hands gripping his biceps and he is dragged, away from the noise and the screaming and the light that’s still piercing his eyes. He passes out before he makes it to his cabin.

-

“Is he awake?”

“I don’t know Denver.”

“Mónica, please, he’s our Captain. Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. Let me take the bandages off and I’ll see.”

Martín groans when hands frame his face and move his head forward. “What’s happening?” he rasps.

“Palermo, your eyes were damaged when Gandía attacked us,” a soft female voice says and Martín recognises it as belonging to Denver’s wife Mónica. “We did our best to remove all the wood splinters, but… we don’t know how much of your vision you’ve retained.”

The bandages are unwound from in front of his eyes and Martín blinks in the daylight. He can see blurry outlines of people in front of him and recognises enough of his surroundings to know he isn’t on the ship anymore, but in one of the tavern rooms back in Nassau.

“I can see fine,” he lies and Mónica, who is close enough to him that he can see the expression on her face looks conflicted.

“Let me check,” a different voice says and Helsinki steps forward.

He crouches in front of Martín and holds up one large hand. Carefully, he covers Martín’s left eye with it.

“Can you see?” he asks and Martín nods, not even lying this time.

“I can see your ridiculous beard, who do you think you are? Edward Teach? I can see fine, Helsinki.”

Helsinki grins. “Let me check the other one.”

He moves his hand across to Martín’s other eye. Immediately, Martín’s vision dims, narrowing to a few light spots in a haze of darkness. He gets the impression of movement and hears Helsinki’s poorly disguised sigh.

“It just needs more time to heal,” Helsinki assures him before he can say anything. “We’ll get you an eyepatch.”

He turns away for a minute and returns with a black eyepatch which he carefully places over Martín’s left eye, hands briefly wandering to pat his chest and knee comfortingly.

“You look like a truly fearsome pirate, Captain,” Denver’s voice comes from the other side of the room.

Martín nods, jaw clenched tightly. “This changes nothing. We’ll go back out tomorrow. Make sure the ship is ready.”

“But, Captain,” Denver says slowly. “Gandía is dead.”

“Exactly!” Martín hisses. “And now every Spanish ship in the Atlantic will want to attack Nassau. We have to be ready.”

He can’t read Denver and Helsinki’s faces, but he hears shuffling and resigned sighs.

“Alright, Captain,” Helsinki says.

Martín nods curtly. “Good. The fight isn’t over!”

* * *

**1707**

“Sergio!” Martín says as he strides into the dining room. “I came as soon as I could. What happened? Where’s Andrés?”

The whole house feels eerie, deserted, and far quieter than Martín is used to.

“They took him,” Sergio says and Martín’s whole world stops.

He sinks into a chair, staring up at Sergio who is standing, immobile by the window. “What?”

Sergio turns to look at him, his face a mask of grief. “He had an appointment to present his idea to court today. And last night, Arturo Román and his men came and took him.”

“Took him?” Martín repeats. “Took him where? On what grounds?”

“The asylum,” Sergio tells him and Martín’s stomach floods with ice. “They know, about you and Andrés. I don’t know how, but they know. They framed it as a bout of insanity, that they’re going to cure him. I think they wanted to make an example of him,” he trails off and Martín wants to throw up.

His hands curl around the edge of the table and he can feel his whole body shaking. “How? Who betrayed us? Was it Tatiana?”

Sergio shakes his head. “No, she was here when they came for him. She begged them not to take him, but her step-father wouldn’t listen.”

“Where is she now?”

“Gone. Arturo is having the marriage annulled and sent her to the country to be married to some count.”

Martín lets go of the table, only to bury his head in his hands. The room feels like it’s spinning and he can’t seem to catch his breath. A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his spiral of panic. Sergio is stood beside, him looking down at him with pity in his eyes.

“What do we do?” Martín asks.

“We have to go,” Sergio says, cutting Martín off before he can speak. “No, we can’t help him. Believe me, I’ve considered… every option. They told me that we have until tonight to leave Madrid and then they will come back for us. Andrés…he asked that we leave – together. He said we were to look after each other.”

Martín shakes his head. “Where will we go? Without him… what is even the point of us attempting to flee?”

“The point is that we survive!” Sergio insists. “Which is what he wanted for us. Please Martín, there’s a ship bound for the colonies, surely together we can get passage out there and find a way to stay safe, to stay alive!”

“If it’s what he wanted….” Martín says slowly, even as everything inside him is begging him to set the city alight and drench the streets in blood until Andrés is returned to him. “Then we’ll go. For Andrés.” 

* * *

**1719**

His hands are once again caked in blood. Not just his hands. His wrists, his forearms, up to his elbows in blood. He can feel it, drying against his chest, sticking his shirt to his skin, can feel it on his face, can taste it in his mouth.

“Enough, Palermo,” Nairobi says. “This war you’re waging has to end. Look around you, it’s been years, and Nassau is no closer to the idyllic place you and the Professor said it would be than when we started.”

She’s right. Martín knows she’s right, knows the crew, who’ve surrounded them are right. He’s tired, but he knows if he stops fighting, he might as well die.

“We can’t give up, can’t just give in to a new governor, a new hand of the king. We need to continue until this war is won!” he tries, but Nairobi shakes her head.

“No. How many casualties have we already tolerated for the cause? We lost half the crew - Oslo, Moscow, Rio. That isn’t a war,” she says, her voice heavy with the pain that Martín knows the rest of the crew feels too. “That’s a fucking nightmare. And I cannot take a single step towards leaving until I know it’s over.”

Martín stares at her, at the rest of his crew who have gathered behind her. He knows they are tired of the fighting, but they cannot see that he is tired too. That he would have laid down his weapons long ago, if only giving up would mean peace for those he loves.

“This is how they survive. You must know this, you’re too smart not to know this” he tells her. “They paint the world full of shadows... and then tell their children to stay close to the light. Their light. Their reasons, their judgments. Because in the darkness, there be dragons. But it isn't true. We can prove that it isn't true. In the dark, there is discovery, there is possibility, there is freedom in the dark once someone has illuminated it. And who has been so close to doing it as we are right now?”

Nairobi sighs. Martín can see pity in her eyes and he wants to claw them out. “This isn’t about Spain, or its king, or our freedom, or any of it. When I thought that Bogotá was gone, for the first time I saw the world through your eyes – a world in which there is nothing left to lose,” she says and Martín’s stomach twists. What does she know of what he has lost?

She is still staring right at him, dark eyes holding his gaze as she continues to speak. “I felt need to make sense of the loss, to impart meaning to it, whatever the cost. To exalt his memory with battles, victories.” Behind her Bogotá reaches out to take her hand and she entwines their fingers. “But beneath all of that, I recognised the other thing, hiding in the spaces, the one whose shape you first showed me and when asked, it was honest about the role it wanted to play. It was rage – and it just wanted to see the world burn! I see a life for myself with him. And I will not live it, wondering if tomorrow is the day your nightmare takes us away from each other for good.”

Martín nods, because he has no other recourse. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to, Andrés dead, Sergio gone, and his crew has turned against him.

“So what next then?” he asks, surprising himself with the calmness of his voice. “What decisions have you made about what our tomorrows will be?”

“I’ve made arrangements,” Nairobi assures him. “That mean that all this will be over, without widespread rebellion, or further loss.”

She looks proud, proud of having solved the problem, around her the crew nod, but Martín will not let them have the last word.

“All this will be for nothing. We will have been for nothing,” he hisses. “Defined by their histories, distorted to fit into their narrative, until all that is left of us are the monsters in the stories they tell their children.”

“I don’t care,” Nairobi says simply and Martín laughs.

“You will! Maybe not now, but one day. You’ll be casting about in the dark for proof that you mattered and you’ll know, all of you will know that you gave it away in this moment!” he steps towards her and Nairobi raises her pistol.

Her voice shakes as she speaks, but her hand is steady. “This is not what I wanted,” she says and for some reason he actually believes her. “But I will stand here with you, for an hour, a day, a month – until you find a way to accept this outcome. I want us to leave here together, but if not, then I must find another way.”

“And what way would that be?” Martín asks, taking another step towards her.

Nairobi looks over at Helsinki and he comes forward. “We found a way for you to function without the rage, without the need for this war,” he says and Martín scoffs. “We found a way to reach into the past and undo it.”

“No man – or woman – can do such a thing,” Martín says and Helsinki shakes his head, his eyes soft.

“There’s a place in Savannah – run by the English and the Spanish together. A place where men who are to be imprisoned can be sent in secret, to serve their sentences. It is much more humane than any prison.”

Martín shakes his head, reaching for his own gun. “You want to lock me up? I’d rather die before that happens!”

“No,” Helsinki protests. “We are sending you there, but not just to lock you up.”

Nairobi steps forward and begins to speak, to elaborate on what awaits him in Savannah and the things she says sound so sincere, yet their sheer impossibility means that he cannot believe them, believe her. He tries to raise his pistol, but it is knocked from his hand.

Marseille grabs him, as does Helsinki, and though he struggles against them, against Denver when he comes to assist them, Martín cannot free himself. They carry him to the ship he once captained and though he screams at them and beats his hands bloody against the wooden walls of the brig, they begin their voyage to Savannah anyway.

-

The heat is scorching as he is lead through the gates of the plantation in Savannah, Bogota on one side, Marseille on the other. Behind the large house, sugar cane fields stretch out into the distance for as far as his damaged eyes can see.

His stomach churns, Nairobi’s promises of this place echoing in his mind. He is escorted into an office where he is asked his name. It feels strange to call himself Martín Berrote again – certainly, since Sergio left no one has called him anything but Palermo. He leaves Marseille and Bogota without a backward glance and new guards escort him out into the fields.

The afternoon sun has baked the ground into the palest of browns, and wavy lines of heat rise up, distorting his vision even further. He can see men, dressed in white, working in the fields. He is stopped at the edge of a field, and the guards unshackle him, but he barely pays them any attention.

Ahead of him, a hazy figure of a man is standing, no longer working, but staring right at him. The man starts to walk towards him and despite Nairobi’s promises, Martín rejects the sense of familiarity that floods him. It isn’t possible, it cannot be possible.

The man comes close enough that Martín can see his face which is much more lined than it once was, see the dark hair that’s now threaded with grey. He sags and then there are arms coming up to grasp him, to support him him. Too solid to not be real.

“Andrés,” he cries, allowing himself to return the embrace, desperately, incredulously.

Andrés clutches him tighter, almost to the point that it’s painful. “Martín,” he says and it’s the first time Martín has heard his voice in over a decade, but somehow it hasn’t changed, somehow his name sounds the same rolling off Andrés’ tongue as it always has.

“You’re alive, how?” he breathes and Andrés pulls him into a bruising kiss without answering the question.

It’s too intense, too much, but Martín drinks in every sensation like he’ll never get to experience them again. Andrés’ fingers in his hair, the back of his shirt. The way he smells, the unconscious noises that escape his lips as Martín kisses him back.

“How?” Martín repeats, breathing ragged when they part. “We had word from Madrid that you were dead.”

Andrés leans forward, pressing his forehead to Martín’s. “A lie,” he explains. “A lie to cover the fact that a place like this exists, where the disgraced upper classes are sent to disappear.”

Martín bites back a sob, but Andrés knows anyway, calloused fingers coming up to wipe at Martín’s tears, not flinching away from the sun-bleached scars under his eyes. “All this time, all this time and you were here. If I’d known…”

“I know, mi amor,” Andrés reassures him. “I know. It’s alright. We’re together now.”

“I won’t let them take you from me again!”

Andrés smiles. “They won’t. Not here. They don’t care. As long as we do the work, they don’t care what else we do.” Martín nods and Andrés kisses him again, softer this time, less desperately. “Besides, now that you’re here… who’s to say we need to stay?”

Martín pulls him close. “I’ll do whatever you want, but you have to know… I’ve changed Andrés – the things I’ve done. I can never express the depths of my sins, never make up for them.”

“How many men you slew in an attempt to avenge me, doesn’t matter to me,” Andrés says, hands gripping either side of Martín’s face so he has no choice but to look him straight in the eye. “You think I haven’t changed?”

“I don’t care if you have,” Martín says immediately, honestly.

“Then we’re on the same page,” Andrés says. “No one in the world could have stood against Achilles when he had Patroclus – I’d like to see someone try to stand against us now we’re reunited.”

Martín draws him into another kiss and Andrés wraps himself further around him, their bodies so close, so tightly entwined, it would take an act of the gods to part them again.

**_We return to each other in waves. This is how water loves. – nayyirah waheed_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this!!! if you did (or even if you didn't) feel free to leave kudos/comments/scream at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


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